It’s your birthday today, the second one since you left. The missing you has become mostly seamless, no more hard rise and fall, just a current that flows beneath me as time carries on. I swore I heard your voice the other night, speaking from somewhere in the back of my head, near the top of the neck you made me. It was just as sweet as I remember it, both in word and tone.
I have a picture of you standing in the rain, black umbrella with its long cane slung over your shoulder. You’re on the old brick walk in front of the house on Ponce de Leon with autumn leaves hanging over your head. You’re reaching up, entirely focused on what is happening to the tree, the changes that are coming as the seasons shift mercilessly. I wonder what you were feeling or saying in that moment. I’d like to think that you’re marveling at what you are observing as if it was the first time you ever saw it.
You were the one that modeled joyous wonder with breathy expressions of my name. Eliiiizaabeth, you’d say with eyes wide and mouth widely agape. In doing so, you taught me to be excited by what others found mundane.
You taught us to love history, to dig deep and see what we could uncover, to cling to threads of where we came from—even if where that was, we didn’t exactly know.
You taught me that no matter what happened, we could pick up the pieces and go on.
You’d sit and listen to my feelings, letting me go on and on and on, never telling me that there was something wrong with having great big feelings inside of such a small girl.
Our lives and upbringing were quite unorthodox—unlike other families, at least the ones we knew—and yet I never doubted that I was loved or what I meant to you.
We spoke of ghosts and spirits and how they inhabited our bodies, our homes, our land while others spoke of religion or what they found in a book, but it was the concepts you shared that have given me comfort when life has hurt the most.
The last time you woke, early in the morning, maybe 4 a.m., you slowly stirred in your bed until you could share with me what you’d seen.
What is it Momma?
Your sweet hands gripped the sheet pulling it up to the top of your neck, eyes wide and mouth agape in amazement one last time.
Eliiiizaabeth, I had a dream.
Yeah, Momma? What did you dream?
Josiah was here. We were standing on the porch and there were a bunch of people standing in the street… a big long line of them. And then, an angel came for usssssss, just Josiah and I.
Yeah, Momma?
And I wasn’t afraid… I wasn’t afraid… I wasn’t afraid.
You don’t have to be afraid Momma. Everything is going to be okay.
And then you went back to sleep.
Four days later, less than five minutes after you took your last breath, the sky opened up and poured down rain, heavier than it ever does, trampling the roof with dancing hooves pulling a French Quarter carriage like the ones we rode in when we were all still very young. It drove by in less than ten minutes and then left a rainbow in its wake.
I thought it might be the light of the angels that shined down on us that day.
I’m both honored and grateful that we could finish our lives the same way they began, you and I together, hand in hand, coming and going from breathy ghosts to living our lives, but Momma, I’ve got to tell you,
Being human is hard. I hope things are easier on the other side.
Thank you for all of the things you told me, the phrases that rang true, the ones I say again to myself when I don’t know what else to do.
If you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you’ve always gotten.
You can’t rationalize with irrational people.
The best revenge is living well.
You’d say all of these things and many more too… or just sit and listen to my big, big feelings without telling me what to do.
YOU’RE AN ARTIST, you’d exclaim with a belief I couldn’t muster. You’d tell me to keep going with my writing, my weaving, my cooking, my loving, whatever it was I was attempting.
Forever the drifter, the dreamer, the lover, my mother.
I’m sure heaven’s gotten better since you arrived.
Remember the Birds 
Such a beautiful story about your momma Liz. I love reading your articles and sometimes I can so relate to what you are saying. Been missing my mom tremendously lately and the deep depression has taken hold of me. I’m trying very hard to attend meetings and connect spiritually to ease the pain but it’s been extremely tough more so then in the past. As I read this story it gave me some very beautiful memories of my mom and put a smile on my face through the tears. Keep writing these beautiful words because they are having a profound effect on my life and I’m sure the same with many others. Have a beautiful day friend
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Thank you, Nicolas. I’m so glad that you found some comfort in what I wrote. I find my struggles much easier when I know I’m not the only one.
I’m sorry to hear of the loss of your mom. If it would be of help, I do offer peer to peer grief support. You can find info on my site.
Sending you love during this challenging time,
Liz
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Your writing is extraordinary & moves me quite often to tears. You are indeed an artist with a gift — one that your mother so obviously nurtured. The photos are lovely. XO
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Thank you, Kerri! That means so much! ✋🏻❤️🤚🏻
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Your writing about your Mom is so beautiful and real. What a blessing to have a Mom like that. My Mom is 101 years old. Almost 102. For those that have lost their moms young I feel so bad. I’ve been given this amazing blessing. dad lived to 98 and Mom will be 102 in October. I feel like the loss of your parents is something we feel forever yet as you say the darks and tides don’t flow so deep with grief. You learn to walk with them in memory.
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Thank you so much for sharing Patricia (btw, that was my mom’s name!). And yes, that is the hope. I am so glad you still have you mom and that you can be there for one another through the loss of your dad. Our parents are our longest and often most intertwined relationships, so the unraveling can be profound. Sending great big hugs to both you and your mom! I hope to live so long 🤗
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Unraveling. That is somethibg my daughter and I talked about last night I’m detail. It’s like all your life we are putting stitches together to somehow create a strong safety net and then something breaks in that net. What do you do!? Do you reinforce that particular weakness or do you start over OR out of frustration do you pull the whole thread until it lies untethered on the ground. I don’t know the answers. You are a wise and brilliant writer. I’m sorry for your losses. We just keep hopefully adding those stitches so we don’t fall through. Much love and respect.
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It sounds like you have a beautiful and rich relationship with your daughter! Thanks so much for following along and being a part of what I’m building. I’m going to keep going and see how far it takes me. 🤗🙏🏼❤️
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You bring me to my knees with your words.
Your Mother is beautiful. Mine was too.
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Big big hugs to you Maci. 🫂🫂🫂
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Loving leads us to grieving but only love overcomes grief…. thank you for your wise words and sharing the wise words of your loving mother.
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Thank you so much for reading and responding 🤗
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Beautiful. You look like your momma.
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Thank you Sherry!
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Heard my mom’s voice once. Right over my shoulder in my left ear. It was in a dream. I was yelling for her to wait up and her words were.. I’m right here.❤️ thanks for sharing about your mama
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What a beautiful experience Erlinda. Gave me chills! Thanks for sharing 🥰❤️✨
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